


Sin City

by sobrecogimiento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2011-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobrecogimiento/pseuds/sobrecogimiento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt from dreamlittleyo in the Make Kripke Kry! fest in ohnokripkedidnt: Let's pretend away everything canon has told us about Hell, shall we?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sin City

**Author's Note:**

> Since this was written long before Lucifer was even mentioned in the show, he's nothing like canon.

The podium is so black that Sam is sure that if he keeps his hands on it much longer, they’re going to sink into it. Two months later, and the room is familiar, an amphitheatre on a small scale, lit by black candles crowded on every surface and the long, deep fire pit before where he stands. He half-listens to the complaints and remembers walking through that fire on the first day here, and shudders, although he isn’t cold. He doesn’t really feel cold anymore, or hot, or any other uncomfortable physical sensations. 

Lust wants more orgy pits. Gluttony wants more human souls to be collected for the purpose of writhing in various states of agony, the essence of their suffering collected so that it may ferment and be incorporated into hell’s brand of alcohol. Avarice wants everything. Envy goes into a funk when anyone else gets anything. Sam listens to them, and thinks,  _So what else is new?_  Two months into this mess and it’s already a dreary habit. Lucy keeps suggesting that he needs to split a few heads to get things under control, and he’s to the point where that doesn’t sound like such an awful idea. 

He doesn’t let the representatives see his discomfort, several from each of the eight levels of hell besides the bottom one, his own. Hell has its own system, hierarchy, politics. Sam keeps his game face on, cold and composed, with a hint of anger behind it like an undercurrent ready to break through. It’s a fucking Parliament he’s dealing with, and he’s sick of it. He remembers government classes at Stanford, and even before that, at various high schools. The more people there are making decisions, the longer it takes for anything to get done. Apparently, this even holds true in the underworld. He listens, treads carefully, responds appropriately, doesn’t suggest discussion or popular vote, leaves suddenly and quickly when he thinks things have been hashed out enough. Six of these, in two months, and he can’t avoid hearing the talk. When Lilith was in charge, there might have been six of these per century. Bitch. If it weren’t for Dean, he’d wish he never killed her. He grimaces and walks faster, sweeping out of the amphitheatre first. He doesn’t want to think about Dean. 

Hell itself isn’t a problem, and it sure as fuck isn’t the common conception. Turns out, there’s not much to be feared, but if people knew that, Earth would be ridden with sin, and hell would be crowded with assholes. And for the most part, the daemons wanted to keep their fun to themselves. The ninth level is beautiful, if a little claustrophobic. The castle—now  _his_  castle, or at least his as much as it’s Lucy’s—is enormous and grandiose, an oversized black cathedral. Its grounds take up the remainder of the level, paths and gardens constructed of dark, glittering jewels. In the distance is the lake of fire, a river of lava flowing ever out and ever back into it around the boundary of the ninth layer, a natural moat. When it rains here it’s reminiscent of the nine plagues of Egypt; evaporation from the lake condenses into clouds that crowd around the rock ceiling and finally release themselves in fiery hail, which causes the gardens to sprout new growth. Sam has been all over the continental U.S., even, finally, to the Grand Canyon, but the ninth layer is, by far, the most beautiful place he’s seen, even including photographs. 

The two layers above him consist of residential areas, the middle and upper middle class, hell’s version of 2.5 kids, a golden retriever, and a white picket fence, the kind neither he nor any other Winchester was able to achieve on Earth. He supposes after awhile that the structure is important, meant to give the ninth level as much peace and quiet as could be provided. Every so often Sam will go up there and remember a story by Ray Bradbury. Dark they were, and golden-eyed. There are families on the seventh and eighth levels, customs and routines as strange to him as if he watched men from Mars. This is where the Yellow-Eyed-Daemon came from, along with his daughter and his son, the latter of whom Dean had killed, all first generation, full-blooded daemons rather than humans who had to lose their humanity first. It’s hard to remember that they’re daemons, that they’re capable of and eager to do horrible things. That’s the main reason, possibly the only reason, daemons leave hell at all—it’s in their nature, to cause suffering, and nothing in hell can provide the same satisfaction as a human on Earth. He wonders if he cares anymore, what side he’s on. 

The fourth, fifth, and sixth layers melt together in a tangle of urban sprawl and neon lights. It has many names, the most popular of which is City of the Damned, which Sam privately scoffs because it’s corny and vulgar, like something out of a comic book. The skyline looks like Vegas, and he thinks the place  _is_  like Vegas, or rather like Vegas mixed with an amusement park and every city district in the world ruled by debauchery and corruption, an ideal version because absolutely nothing is illegal and no one dies. It’s a vacation spot, for daemons and minor gods, but Sam has only been through there once, to look and not touch, just part of his effort to understand the place he was supposed to rule. The City of the Damned is so ostentatious in its sin, even for hell, that it makes him sick. He sticks to the ninth layer and leaves the rest alone. 

Industry exists in the first three layers, or, as daemons call them, The Kitchens, as does the only true suffering in hell—that of new humans—the product of which is used as both alcohol and fuel. Sam won’t touch the stuff; if he were still mortal, it would kill him. The labourers live and work there, the crudest bunch. It’s these that made up the majority of daemons that escaped from hell in Wyoming, an army of nasty infantry, brute force lacking the subtle cruelty of the lower layers. And even the humans are only there for a few centuries, before they begin losing what they had, and eventually escape or are promoted to the City of the Damned, a cashier or maitre d’ as needed. Sam goes there more often than he should, even though he knows that Dean isn’t among those poor souls writhing in the pits, and that he’d know, instinctively, if he suddenly was. 

Dean’s pit is special. Sam’s seen it, the meat hooks hanging empty and still in the dry heat. The first time he saw it he almost puked, even though Dean’s not there, even though Sam saved him, killed Lilith in time. Just the possibility is enough to cause him boundless horror. 

Sam wrests himself back into the present just in time to avoid missing the library door. He kicks his shoes and socks up as soon as he’s inside, letting the black carpet rise to his ankle as he unbuttons his sleeves and loosens his tie. He doesn’t give half a damn if everyone else thinks he looks ridiculous; he couldn’t take himself seriously if he dressed in their idea of formal wear, robes leftover from Lucy’s fall from heaven. Sam flops into an armchair by the window, plush and black enough to seem to meld with the carpet, and breathes in the scent of the huge, still, library, at least one copy of every book ever written. He can see the lake of fire from where he sits, but he doesn’t look at it, deciding to relax and close his eyes, first running a hand over his face in frustration. How the fuck is he supposed to deal with all this? How can he afford not to? 

A messenger walks in just as he’s dozing off. “Sir?” 

Sam sits up and looks in his direction, minimal but adequate appreciation. It had taken forever to get the castle staff to just call him sir, instead of a higher title, or worse, Our Mother, which had been for Lilith. And maybe he’s her replacement, but he isn’t  _her,_  for Christ’s sake. 

“Sir, Lust is in quite a state. An everlasting orgy pit was set on fire.” 

Sam frowns. “Again?” 

“I’m afraid so, sir.” 

He drops his head back against the armchair. “Well, they’re under her jurisdiction, and she can punish the vandal as she sees fit. I’m not helping her, if that’s what she wants.” 

The messenger bows and leaves, a “Very good, sir” trailing behind him. 

Sam rubs his temples in exasperation. He’s having enough trouble without some practical joker on his hands. He leans back, and, while he’s thinking of it, probes a few of hell’s boundaries with his mind, makes sure that everything is in order. That was Lilith’s old job, the one he took over, the only reason he’s down here in the first place, or at least the reason he’s down here according to the daemons. As far as he’s concerned, the only reason he’s here is blackmail, plain and simple. 

“You awake there, Sleeping Beauty?” 

Sam starts, opening his eyes and seeing another face inches away from his, and nearly knocks their foreheads together before its owner darts a few steps back and falls into another armchair. “Lucy! Stop doing that, will you?” 

But Lucy only giggles and swings his legs off the side of the armchair, clad in the tightest pair of leather pants that Sam’s ever seen. It’s strangely easy to call him by his nickname; Satan doesn’t look a day older than seventeen, and Lucifer would somehow sound too sinister, though as young as his face and features are, there’s something incredibly ancient about him in his eyes and expression. Ancient, but not cruel. 

The supposed lord and ruler of all hell tugs at his shoulder-length black hair and complains that it’s messed up, whereupon Sam sees that it is, singed down damn near to his scalp in a few spots. 

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Sam asks. 

“Huh?” Lucy says, the perfect imitation of clueless innocence. 

Sam sighs. “Lust’s orgy pits.” 

He grins impishly. “Don’t tell her, though. She’ll kill me.” 

“Don’t I have enough to deal with without you undermining my authority?” 

“You have authority?” he asks childishly, mockingly. 

“You do remember that I’m here because you’re lazy?” 

He’s finally struck a nerve. Lucy gets up abruptly and stands by the window, gazing out over the grounds. “I told you,” he says. “I never  _wanted_  to be in charge of all those bickering reps and their problems. I let Lily do it because she did want to, but when she went up to Earth, she left things in the hands of Parliament.” He smiles bitterly. “She didn’t want me changing anything while she wasn’t here. And then instead of asking me to help, those idiots decided to go get you when she died. I didn’t do a damn thing except write the invitation. They forget,” he says quietly, still staring out the window, “that I built this place. They forget what I gave up to have it.” 

His face takes on a different expression, cold and marble, enough determination to rebel against God. Sam doesn’t know, and doesn’t think he ever will, which is the real him. 

He notes what Lucy said about writing the invitation, and frowns because he never mentioned that before. Sam remembers getting the so-called invitation all too well, after weeks of dealing with messengers from heaven and messengers from hell and a few minor gods until he wouldn’t have been surprised if little green men from the moon came to bother him next. They all wanted him to take over hell, to take Lilith’s old spot in the hierarchy, because she held things in place that didn’t exactly stick on their own. And Sam had refused to do it, refused for weeks after he killed her, wanting nothing more than for everything paranormal and/or mythological, including the supposed impending apocalypse, to go the hell away. He’d been dealing with this on some level for his whole life and he was sick to death of it all. 

Sam doesn’t want this. He’s never wanted any of this. He wants to be on Earth, with Dean, because Dean had finally stopped what Sam thought of as his bulimia act after he saved him. Dean would go days, sometimes weeks, wherein he would be seemingly unable to leave Sam alone, and then abruptly switch to ignoring him, finding some bar and some girl along the way that never filled the gap. And Sam would sit there, brow furrowed at his laptop like he was actually concentrating on it, muttering refusals to his brother’s offers of, “She has a friend, Sam. Want me to hook you up?” He’d wait until Dean left, and then go back to the room and pretend it didn’t bother him, keep that up a month at most, until Dean couldn’t take it any more, came back and slammed him into the wall, growling curses against his mouth. Almost two years this went on before Sam saved him, before he finally believed that Sam cared as much about him as he cared about Sam, and stopped dropping him and banging some girl to prove to himself that he still could. Two years, a few weeks of fucking paradise, and then the mandate. 

Lucy could call it an invitation if he wants, but Sam will call it what it is. Black stationary, long, curving calligraphy that glittered across the paper like flames, a mandate that said if he didn’t get down to hell  _right now_  they’d unleash the hell hounds on his brother, deal or no deal. So Sam had gone, walked right through the Devils’ Gate in that cowboy cemetery and taken the Colt with him, the panicked sound of Dean yelling his name, audible even through the Impala’s rolled up windows as Sam holds him there with his mind and hates the fact that he has to hold him, echoing in his brain long after he couldn’t hear it anymore. He walked right through the Devils’ Gate, nine levels down on foot, barged into a Parliament meeting and took over. The first thing they’d done after tossing him in the fire pit was to take him to all the things that needed fixing, the big things that were unravelling without Lilith to take care of them. As far as Sam’s concerned, it wasn’t a big deal—he’d just done what they told him—but the looks on their faces said that he was even more than they’d expected. Sam supposes that’s the only real reason why he’s still in charge, at least nominally, instead of being shipped off to The Kitchens with the rest of the human souls. He wonders sometimes what it would matter if he was. Dean’s not here, nor will he ever be, so for Sam it’s hell. In the traditional sense. 

Initially, Sam had been scared, a blind, panicked fear, that Dean would come to hell, get here by way of suicide. But two months later, Sam thinks it’s safe to feel relief, because if Dean hasn’t by now, he probably isn’t going to. And if he took that route, there would be nothing Sam could do to save him from The Kitchens. He supposes he could wait until Dean dies and request a transfer from heaven or the Isles of the Blessed or wherever, if he’d come, and Sam isn’t sure that he would. Because maybe Dean had stopped his bulimia act because he thought he owed it to him, and now Sam doesn’t know why Dean would think he owes him anything. 

Lucy’s voice brings him abruptly back to the here and now. “Thinking about your brother again, emo face?” 

“You know,” Sam says, avoiding the subject, “you shouldn’t use colloquial slang. It doesn’t suit you.” 

“Hey, cheer up,” Lucy says. “Life’s short. Eternity’s long. He’ll come ‘round in a few decades or so.” 

Sam huffs and shakes his head, gets up on the pretext of finding a book. 

“I’m serious!” Lucy calls after him. “Fine, if you’re going to be like that, I’ll leave!” 

“Hey.” Sam retraces his steps, remembering suddenly. “We have a few messengers from heaven down.” 

“Oh?” he says, pausing mid-step and turning around slowly. “What do they want?” 

“To annoy us. It’s a welcoming committee,” he elaborates. 

Lucy snorts. “Official crap. I see. Tell them to tell Daddy I say hi.” 

 _Daddy?_  Sam thinks. But before he can decide if it’s better to ask or not, Lucy’s already out of the library and halfway down the corridor. 

*   
Sam manages to put off the next Parliament meeting for another month, searching obsessively for ways to dissolve it. “I keep telling you,” Lucy says. “Split a few heads open and they’ll listen. That’s what Lily always did.” But Sam isn’t so sure, isn’t sure because he’s not Lilith, doesn’t know if that will give him control or rebellion. And the last thing he needs is to start out his reign with a civil war. 

He stands at his podium and listens to the bitching and the bickering, because he has to. For all that they call themselves representatives, these daemons are nothing more than warlords, grown fat and lazy and bored from too many aeons of peace. Representatives, Sam thinks, have to be elected, and have to face the ordeal of re-election for fairness to be ensured. He cites his government classes in his head, remembers that the U.S. government was set up so it would take forever for anything to get done, efficiency and swiftness sacrificed for the sake of equitability. But no one in this room cares about fairness, cares about those under their immediate jurisdiction. They are primarily, and in most cases only, concerned with helping themselves and sometimes their friends, and for the first time Sam realises that this body has no point, that he was still thinking in terms of Earth laws, which don’t apply here. 

“Recess,” he snaps after a few hours, a word that most had most of them staring in confusion the first time he used it, and flees to the corridor, where a maid is waiting for him with a glass of water on a tray. He takes it and drinks greedily. 

Lucy saunters into view. He usually avoids these meetings at all costs, but today Sam saw him sitting in the back row and felt something close to apprehension. The only reason Lucy would be here is because he thinks something interesting is going to happen, and Sam doesn’t know if that means good or bad news for him. 

He leans against the wall, casual feline grace. “Lord Amarel isn’t happy.” 

“I know,” Sam says, and adds, “He’s in charge of the first level of The Kitchens. Who would be?” 

Lucy’s face is a little too placid. “He’s thinking of usurpation.” 

Sam’s head whips around, incredulous. “He’s a minor lord. It’ll never work.” 

“You’re new management, Sam,” Lucy says quietly. “They expect new things. He’s going to challenge you. Here. Today. He’s going to offer things you haven’t.” 

“Fuck,” Sam says. “So what do you suggest that I do?” 

Lucy pats him on the shoulder. “Time to start splitting heads.” 

Sam returns to the amphitheatre with sweat on his forehead. He can run all day now without being tired, but his heart feels like it’s beating faster than a hummingbird’s. He’s already at the podium and just about to call for attention when a messenger runs in and tugs his sleeve urgently. 

“Someone to see you, sir.” 

Sam glances down at him and frowns. “Can it wait?” 

The messenger hesitates. “It’s a human sir, causing a great deal of trouble.” 

The room has quieted by this point, waiting for him to continue. “Excuse me,” Sam says, and walks out again, wondering how and why a human soul got to these parts. 

The human is out in the corridor, raising hell (pun not intended) and yelling at the poor, trembling maid, holding the tray that had Sam’s water glass on it in front of her like a shield. Sam freezes in his tracks when he sees him, heart beating even faster and plummeting to his feet. 

“Who’s in charge around here?” the human demands. “I’ve literally just been through hell, and I want to see my brother.” 

“I am,” Sam says, interrupting his tirade. 

Dean turns on a dime and sees him, the resulting shock creating a momentary pause. He’s soot-streaked and looks sunburnt in places, like he got a little too close to the flames. Sam wonders how he got across the lake of fire, and realises that he must have snuck after the representatives, while the drawbridges were still down to allow their attendants. And he’s solid; he didn’t commit suicide but found a way down here in the flesh, the only thing he could have done to save himself from the pit. 

It takes a few seconds, at most, for Dean to get over it, and then he’s advancing on Sam, remembering how pissed he is, like he’s fixing to punch him. 

“Uh, Dean, I really wouldn’t—“ 

But his brother doesn’t listen, lands a blow flat across his face. Sam barely feels it, but Dean clutches his hand in pain, swearing. 

“Jesus—ow!” he hisses. “What the fuck  _are_  you?” 

“I tried to warn you,” Sam says, but Dean’s already back to bitching him out. Sam doesn’t know how long he yells or what about—something about being worried and not being able to do research without him because that’s not his job and having to climb down through fucking hell—but Dean’s  _here_  and Sam doesn’t hear a word. 

“And I had to go across this river with that creepy ferryman and he said it was the Styx, and I asked if it was like the band, and he hit me, Sam! He hit me with his oar! Sam? Sam? Are you even listening to me?” 

“Are you done?” Sam asks. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, sticking his chin out. “Yeah, I’m done.” 

“Good,” Sam says, and backs him up into the wall, fingers digging into the muscles of his back and a hand behind his head. He kisses him and doesn’t stop for a long time until he remembers that Dean needs air and lets him pull back to take a breath. 

Dean licks his lips and says, “Oh.” 

“What?” 

“I forgot.” 

“You forgot what, Dean?” 

“You’re really good at that. Like, seriously. I’m still mad at you, though.” 

Sam laughs and kisses him again and then backs off reluctantly. “See, Dean, I’ve taken over Lilith’s place.” 

“Yeah, I figured.” 

“So I’m kind of in charge of hell.” 

“You’re what?” 

“And I have this meeting right now, and I need to get back in there because someone’s thinking of overthrowing me.” 

“Oh hell no,” Dean says. “I can fix that.” 

He starts for the amphitheatre and Sam stands there and gapes like an idiot before following him in and hissing after him in an undertone to get the hell out of here, to do him a favour and not do him any favours. 

But Dean’s already at the podium, and he gets up there, dirty and soot-streaked, in jeans and a T-shirt and combat boots and a collared shirt unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, and says. “Hey! You! All of you! Hey!” The room gets very quiet. Sam can feel himself turning white. “Hey, you know it’s like, fucking Vegas up there, right? Well, you all need to go there and get laid. Like, right now.” 

They stare at him in confusion, the silence before the storm. “Dean,” Sam says. “You may want to get out of here before they kill you.” 

“Why would they do that?” Dean asks, completely oblivious. Sam drops his face into his palm. 

Sam is saved from the arduous task of explaining by Lord Amarel, who, with a few effective rhetorical devices, states that they will no longer be given false promises (though Sam hasn’t promised them anything he hasn’t delivered) and not taken seriously by a mere human (though this is the first time they haven’t been taken seriously, and it’s not by Sam), no matter how said human has come to power, and seems to convince almost everyone else in the room of his point. Sam thinks he’s lost, that Dean’s ruined it, but then Lord Amarel decides to pioneer his movement by launching a spear at Sam, which goes badly off course and hits his brother full in the chest. 

Even immortal, Sam didn’t know he could move so fast. In one swift motion, he pulls the spear out of his brother and shoves him into the fire pit, hoping it’s not already too late. Dean squawks in surprise and then stands there like a simpleton, because it doesn’t hurt. It’s not even hot, and the hole that’s supposed to be through his chest just isn’t there. 

Sam doesn’t have time for speeches, doesn’t have the time or the inclination to explain anything. From the collective gasp shared by everyone, including Lucy, he realises that he’s a step away from either complete control or complete chaos. He finds a core of raw, dark power in himself, something he hadn’t used since killing Lilith, and blows Lord Amarel and all his minions to bits. It looks like spontaneous combustion, muscles and bones and organs pulverised until the surrounding daemons are hit with nothing more than a spray of fine, red droplets. 

“You forget,” Sam says, into the following silence, “that I killed Lilith. You forget that I am in charge here. If any of you still agree with Lord Amarel, you will receive his treatment. If all of you agree with Lord Amarel, I am not afraid to kill every one of you and find replacements. We will have no more of these meetings, understand? Anyone with a complaint may come and see me in private. Anyone who is so much as rumoured to want to usurp me will be killed. You are dismissed.” 

“Damn,” Lucy says, coming down from the top row once the amphitheatre is empty. “That was awesome.” 

“Hel _lo,”_  Dean says. “Can someone help me out of here?” 

Sam realises he’s still holding Amarel’s spear. He reaches down accordingly and pulls Dean out, and runs the spear through his midsection. 

“What the hell?” Dean says immediately, before the conspicuous lack of pain registers. 

“The fire burned away your mortality,” his brother explains, yanking the spear out and discarding it. 

“What the hell?” Dean says again. “Couldn’t you have just said that?” 

“No,” Sam deadpans. “It wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.” 

“Hey,” Lucy says. “Should I like, leave now so you can have sex or something?” 

Dean nearly falls back into the fire. “Who’s this kid?” 

“Dean, this is Lucifer. Lucy, this is my brother.” 

“Lucifer . . . ?” Dean echoes. 

“A.k.a Satan,” Lucy elaborates. “But call me Lucy.” 

“How does he know?” Dean asks Sam. 

“That’s just him,” Sam answers lamely. He can’t explain it right now, that Lucy knew from the first, figured it out for himself that Sam and Dean are SamandDean, from the second Sam mentioned his brother. He’d just said, “Oh, you love him, right?” and denying it would have been useless. 

So Sam leads him out of the amphitheatre because he doesn’t want to be there anymore, Dean still protesting and Lucy making increasingly awkward comments as they start down the hall. 

Later, they’re up on the battlements, finally alone. There are actual cannons up here, as ancient as the castle itself, and Sam wonders if they’ve ever been used. 

“Do you remember,” Dean says, “when right after you killed Lilith I asked you about retiring somewhere?” 

“I’m surprised you do,” Sam snorts. “You were drunk off your ass. What about it?” 

Dean glares at him, but otherwise ignores his comment. “Well, you picked the best damned retirement home I’ve ever seen.” 

“Does that mean you forgive me?” 

“No,” he says stubbornly, “that means I don’t have to worry about the feds getting me here.” 

Sam laughs, loud enough to echo against the ninth level’s dirt ceiling, barely ten feet over their heads. 

“Although,” Dean says, “you’ll probably get bored here without those assholes to deal with.” 

“You only say that because you haven’t seen the library.” 

“What about when you get sick of reading?” 

Sam smiles and brushes his knuckles against the strong line of Dean’s jaw. He somehow never thought to hope that Dean would do what he did, come down here before death. “Thank God you’re not an idiot,” he says. 

Dean opens his mouth to ask what he’s talking about, but then Sam kisses him again, and that’s much better than an explanation. 

“You know,” Dean says, “between this place and Vegas, hell’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” 

Sam remembers thinking that, remembers thinking that he was the only person below The Kitchens who thought of it as hell in the traditional sense, because Dean wasn’t here with him. 

“No,” he says, against his neck, his face, his mouth. “No, it’s not so bad.” 

~End


End file.
